


Forgiveness

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Autistic Character, Cruel Parents, Drug Abuse, M/M, Potential Stockholm Syndrome, Stimming, Stuttering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Trevor is shy, uncertain, and riddled with anxiety. It doesn’t make sense that his best friend is Sherlock Holmes. Except, it sort of does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> This series contains a stand alone stories that were prompted or otherwise posted on my tumblr page. They have not been beta'd and are just flights of fancy.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes.

Victor Trevor didn’t like talking to other people. In fact, he hated it. The University set him up with off campus housing, and he carefully planned his route to and from school to maximize efficiency with the least amount of social interaction possible. He hugged his books to his chest, kept his head down, and adamantly avoided anyone who might have an interest in talking to him.

 

He signed up for lecture style courses so he wouldn’t have to speak in class, and he practically volunteered to do all work in a group project so he didn’t have to engage in anything passed the standard hellos.

 

Victor Trevor was also a man of routine. He plotted it all out, one thing after another, making sure that every day was exactly the way it should be. He walked his bull terrier from six to seven every morning, and he always took the same route. After that, it was careful re-examination of all of his assignments that were due that day. Then he would commute to school, and when classes were finished he returned home. Any interruptions to this were met with hostility and displeasure.

 

Victor Trevor therefore, did _not_ like it when his bull terrier decided to latch onto the ankle of one of the early morning joggers he passed at the oak tree every day at six-thirty three. The jogger went down like a stone, yelping in pain as the dog refused to relinquish its hold.

 

“Pappy! Pappy no! Stop, stop, please stop? I-I- _down! Down boy!_ ” Eventually he got the damned thing off the jogger’s leg, but blood had started to rush down the man’s ankle into his sneaker and Victor felt like he was going to be sick. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s never done that before. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s…fine.” The jogger informed him awkwardly, reaching for the wound and carefully pressing down on it.

 

“I…I’ll get an ambulance. I…hold on. Hold on I’ll just…I…do you think the baker has a phone?” He looked anxiously towards the shop in question. He’d never been there. The jogger followed his gaze.

 

“Judging by the state of his window sign? Unlikely.” The jogger sighed. “I’ll be fine. The bodyguards will be by any moment now, pretending to admire the view. They’ll cart me off, I’m sure.”

 

“C-cart you off?” Victor couldn’t manage to process that. He blinked at the jogger for a few minutes, before he felt unbearably dizzy. “Oh god, you’re a royal aren’t you? Oh god, I’ve just mauled a royal.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Victor wasn’t listening. He was too busy hyperventilating, shaking his head as he pulled Pappy close to his body and wished the ground would just open up and swallow him.

 

Later, when the bodyguards did show up to see what had happened, they found the jogger shoving Victor’s head between his knees and coaching him through a panic attack. After they swore Victor wasn’t going to be thrown in the tower for his actions, they brought both of them to the hospital.

 

The jogger’s name: Sherlock Holmes.

 

His occupation: student.

 

They became best friends after that.

 

Victor swore it was because Sherlock wouldn’t leave him alone. Sherlock swears it was the opposite. Neither were entirely sure which one was telling the truth.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Victor didn’t like people in his space, and he liked it even less when someone moved his belongings. Sherlock, oddly, was perfectly accepting to his quirks. He just nodded his head and asked permission before he did anything, and Victor couldn’t help but feel unbelievably grateful for it.

 

Even after they’d known each other for years, Sherlock would always ask first. “Can I sit here? Can I see this? Can I get a glass?” The answer was almost always yes, but there were times when Victor could feel the panic starting to rise in his chest. _No don’t touch that!_ Burned in his mind. He opened his mouth to say it, but the words froze in his throat. Sherlock always saw, and he immediately changed the subject. He never touched anything Victor didn’t give him permission to.

 

They had a few stumbles on the way, of course. Victor was terrible with social interaction, and sometimes Sherlock’s mere presence in his flat caused anxiety to burn in his stomach. He didn’t know what he was expected to do or say. He didn’t know how he was supposed to entertain him.

 

“Well…what do you want to do?” Sherlock asked when Victor forced himself to inquire.

 

“Read.” Victor blurted, before flushing dark as he realized that it was inappropriate.

 

“Sounds fine, do you have anything I could look at on mummies?” Sherlock asked, looking over towards Victor’s shelf. “Haven’t read up on them in ages.” When Victor numbly handed him a book, Sherlock asked to sit, and then they started to read together. They didn’t talk for hours, and it was wonderful.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Victor yearned he could be something as good as a shadow to Sherlock. Sherlock was brilliant, vibrant, and energetic. Victor wanted nothing more than to cling to the heels of Sherlock’s life, touching him in some way even though he’d never measure up to all the fantastic things that Sherlock did.

 

He told Sherlock about his dream one night, quietly while they looked up at the cloudy sky from the roof. Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not my shadow.”

 

“What could I be, if not that?” Victor asked, feeling more hurt by Sherlock’s comment than he knew he had a right to be. “You’re a sun shining on the world…what good could I possibly be if not a shadow?

 

“You’re the moon.” Sherlock replied, oddly poetic for once in his life. “You’re _my_ moon. I shine only to you, and the rest of the world gets in the way and makes you feel like you’re not good enough for anything. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong.”

 

“But…I’m not good enough.” Victor told him quietly, uncomfortable with Sherlock’s insistence.

 

“You’re flawless. You just don’t see it.” Sherlock said, shaking his head. He stood up and started to go back down to the flat. Victor wished he knew what he was supposed to say to that. He didn’t.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

After they’d known each other for three years, Sherlock and Victor moved in together. Sherlock had formed an uneasy alliance with Papyrus the Bull Terrier, affectionately called Pappy by Victor alone, and Papyrus agreed not to eat Sherlock’s leg so long as Sherlock not go within three feet of him uninvited.

 

The first few weeks were hell. Victor jumped at every noise Sherlock made, he flinched at every new item that emerged into their living space, and he was constantly on edge in his own home. He was convinced that he’d do something wrong, and Sherlock would leave and never come back. There was very little Sherlock could do to prove otherwise.

 

Sherlock seemed to have a mind of his own, however, and whenever Victor started to get more uncomfortable: he stopped what he was doing and he started to change his behaviors immediately. “You’ll get tired of it.” Victor warned him, rubbing his arms over and over again.

 

“No,” Sherlock informed him, “I won’t.” Victor didn’t dare to believe it was true.

 

Sherlock never invited anyone back to their flat, and if he was going to be out late he let Victor know with ample time to plan. Victor thanked him quietly, and then wrote out his new schedule to map around Sherlock’s absence. Usually, he was asleep when Sherlock returned. It was rare when he was still awake enough to hear Sherlock push through the door, stumbling in as best he could, and giggling slightly under his breath as he drunkenly locked up for the night.

 

“D-do you need help?” He ventured to ask on those evenings.

 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you, fine, fine, I’m fine!” Sherlock laughed, shaking his head as he made his way to his bedroom.

 

Victor didn’t think anything of it, and went back to sleep.

 

Years later, he’d hate himself for that.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock met Victor’s parents by accident. They had gone out to take Papyrus for a walk, and when they returned, Mr. and Mrs. Trevor were already inside. Pappy barked unhappily at them, and Victor had gone rigid at he sight of someone in his home. Sherlock reached out and gave Victor’s arms a tight squeeze, pulling him down to earth and latching him into reality as his mind skyrocketed away in hysteria.

 

“Victor, what a mess you’ve made.” His mother said, clicking her tongue as she looked about their flat.

 

“S-sorry mom.” Victor flushed dark and his shoulders bunched up.

 

“Don’t just stand in the doorway, come in and introduce us.” His father insisted, and Victor trudged forwards as though drawn by a magnetic link. It didn’t matter if he fought it, he would go regardless. Sherlock followed after him, eyes narrowed and brows knitted together.

 

“Sh-Sherlock these are my my my-”

 

“Your parent’s, for God’s sake.” His father snapped. Victor flinched at the noise and Pappy growled loudly. “And put the damn beast away. I thought I told you to get rid of it last Christmas.”

 

“I-” Sherlock had been the one to stop that from happening. Victor had returned home from the holidays with the news that he was putting Papyrus up for adoption, and Sherlock hadn’t understood. He’d questioned the action, and complained about it until Victor agreed that the dog could stay. Victor never understood it, especially since Papyrus and Sherlock didn’t get along, but the extra weight leaning on him to not send Papyrus to a shelter had been enough to stay his hand.

 

“I told him not to.” Sherlock spoke up; cutting Victor off from whatever stumbling explanation he was about to give. Victor sagged gratefully at his side, words closed off in his throat and incapable of coming out.

 

“Why on earth would you do a thing like that? That creature is vicious and vile.” His mother shrilled.

 

“Only if it doesn’t like you. Personally, I’ve always found dogs to be an excellent judge of character.” A nervous laugh came out of Victor’s mouth too loud, and it echoed uselessly in the air. His parents glared at him.

 

“And you are?” Victor’s father asked as he moved closer to Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, your son’s flatmate.” Sherlock informed him easily.

 

“Flatmate? You actually live with him?” The concept seemed foreign to the man, and Victor felt one of his hands moving to the edge of Papyrus’ leash, rubbing his thumb over the seam again and again and again and again. It had been so long since they moved in with each other – Sherlock was bound to be upset that Victor had never even mentioned him to his parents. Guilt and despair clung to his heart making it ache with each pound in his chest.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock replied firmly, without reservations of any kind.

 

“You serve as his caretaker then?” Shame and embarrassment joined with guilt and despair. Humiliation clung to the air and Victor’s head started to fill with white noise. He hated how he felt.

 

“Victor doesn’t _need_ a caretaker.” Sherlock replied icily.

 

“You must have realized by now that he’s retarded. I can hardly believe he’s managed this long without someone monitoring him.” His mother snorted.

 

“Your son isn’t retarded.” Sherlock said, voice so firm that Victor flinched at the weight of it. He kept rubbing the seam in his hand, nervous and uncertain, and desperate for relief of some kind.

 

“Of course he is, just _look_ at him.”

 

“Your son is one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met. His research on Egyptology is ground breaking in his field, and he’s going to be an honored laureate of our University. He’s perfectly capable of looking after himself, and the only trouble he has in life is when people like _you_ constantly tell him he’s not. Now, I may be speaking out of turn, but I believe it’s time for you both to go. _This instant_.” Victor was certain he’d misheard. No one had ever said that to his parents before. They couldn’t. His parents would…they would…well they’d do something and it was never good.

 

“How dare you speak to us in this manner?”

 

“Get out of our flat.” Sherlock hissed. “Trust me when I say that mine are bigger, and more powerful, than yours. I will have no trouble whatsoever _destroying_ you if it means you leave your son alone. Now _go_.”

 

“Victor, are you going to let him speak to us like that?” His mother screeched, and Victor recoiled. He looked between his mother and his father and his flatmate, and he shook his head back and forth. No words came out, but he lifted his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to just block out the noise that was suddenly starting to pound into his skull. Noise and expectation, and it was just so _wrong_.

 

He wanted nothing more than for it to just stop, but his reaction produced another round of shouting from his parents, and then Papyrus started barking loudly, and Sherlock was rallying a defense he didn’t deserve, and he was tired and overwhelmed and he just wanted the noise to go away.

 

Make it stop.

 

Make it stop.

 

Make it stop.

 

Make it stop.

 

“Victor?” He felt warm arms wrap around him and hold him close. A tight embrace that squeezed his body firmly and wouldn’t let him go. Victor shivered and shook in Sherlock’s arms, and he forced his eyes to open. They were on the floor, knees drawn up, head tucked under Sherlock’s chin, his parents were gone. “Do you want tea?” Victor shivered violently, and nodded his head.

 

Carefully, Sherlock released him. He dragged a thick blanket off their couch and wrapped Victor in it before he left. Papyrus immediately jumped into his lap and pressed his white nose into Victor’s throat. Victor was trembling badly.

 

“Here.” Sherlock pressed a mug into Victor’s hands and steadied it as Victor carefully began to sip. They didn’t talk again for the rest of the night.

 

His parents never came back.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Two months after Victor received notification from a solicitor that he had been disinherited; Sherlock invited him back to his family home for Easter. Victor hadn’t known what to expect, and was increasingly nervous about the trip. Sherlock insisted, and so they went.

 

Violet Holmes met them at the door to her pink stained cottage, and drew Sherlock into a tight hug. Then, before he could stop her or even realize what she was planning, she did the same to Victor. Papyrus sat uselessly at Victor’s feet, perfectly content to watch as Violet embraced his master. Useless creature.

 

They were ushered inside, and Victor’s head spun as he was introduced to Arthur, Sherlock’s father, and Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft apparently was the one with the bodyguards that followed Sherlock around. It was “his pleasure” to finally meet Victor too.

 

Victor watched in awe as Sherlock and Mycroft argued back and forth all evening, as Violet bustled about and constantly asked if he wanted anything, and as Arthur quietly retreated to work on his model train set. Victor’s thumb started worrying the seam on Papyrus’ leash once more, and he looked around the hectic home with its too bright colors and too many knick-knacks. It made him feel sick.

 

“Come, dear, Sherlock said you like to read, yes? Why don’t you go to the sun room and do just that.” Violet offered, leading Victor to a quiet room with nothing in it save a window seat and a small table. He could have sobbed in relief as he finally was able to just sit and pull away from the world.

 

“You-you don’t m-mind?” He asked.

 

“Nonsense. If I minded every time someone in this family felt compelled to indulge their hobbies, I’d be incapable of thought. You relax now. Can I get you anything? Tea? Biscuits?”

 

“No I-I I mean, no thank you.”

 

“You enjoy your book, dear.” Violet pat his shoulder and hurried out the door, yelling for Sherlock to knock it off when a loud thump could be heard in the corridor. Victor wasn’t sure what just happened, but he was fairly certain Sherlock’s parents were saints.

 

Dinner was wonderful and relaxing, and even though Victor spent half of it second-guessing himself, he felt more peaceful here than he could recall ever being at a friend’s house before. The conversation was invigorating, the food was wonderful, and the atmosphere was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Sherlock and Mycroft had made a career out of fighting with each other, and were perfectly poised to exchange barbs at any given moment. It was like a comedy routine that they’d mastered long ago. When he laughed too loud – no one corrected him. No one seemed to notice.

 

It felt so right.

 

When they prepared to leave to return to their flat a few days later, Victor didn’t even flinch when Violet pulled him in for a hug. “You come back now, any time all right? Don’t wait for this lump to do it, if he had it his way he wouldn’t come back at all!”

 

“Why not?” Victor asked, and Violet beamed at him.

 

“Exactly! Perhaps you can bully him into returning.”

 

“Mummy…” Sherlock whined, though Victor could see his smile. He was amused, not upset.

 

“I…I’ll try?” Victor offered, and Violet’s smile grew even wider. Arthur didn’t offer to shake his hand, or hug him for that matter, but he did give a half-hearted wave before returning to his trains.

 

“Don’t mind him.” Violet said. “He’s working on that new caboose of his. If it had arrived the day we were to be married I would have been walking down the aisle with no husband there to meet me.” She laughed at the idea, and Victor mimicked the action unconsciously. “Well then, off with you both. Don’t want you travelling too late. It get’s dark sooner this time of year. There you go, bundle up – keep warm. And do try to stop antagonizing your brother, Sherlock.”

 

“I will if he does.” Sherlock promised.

 

Victor loved Sherlock’s family.

 

He made it a point to go back whenever he could.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sometimes Sherlock scared him. Sometimes, Sherlock would come home late at night and giggle about nothing, fall to the floor uselessly, or vomit from substance abuse. Sometimes, Victor would stand trembling in the doorway, watching Sherlock as he was sick in the toilet, and wondered what he was supposed to do.

 

Drinking had turned to smoking, which had turned to _smoking_ , which had turned to drugs that Victor could see track marks from. “You-you’re too smart for this.” Victor mumbled once, awkwardly, uncertainly, while Sherlock was recovering from his most recent bout of dry heaving. “You-you shouldn’t-”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do Victor.” Sherlock snapped. “You’ve on idea what I should and shouldn’t do. None at all.” Victor recoiled and quietly trudged away, unwanted, discarded. Sherlock always lashed out while he was high.

 

In the morning, Sherlock would apologize, tell him he didn’t mean it, and they’d do something together to make it better. It never felt better. Victor didn’t know if he was supposed to forgive Sherlock for what he said, it was only the truth after all. You can’t forgive someone for telling the truth. It didn’t work like that.

 

Did it?

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They graduated in the springtime. Sherlock’s parents and brother came to celebrate with them, and Victor was pulled into their embrace as well. He looked for his own family; he had sent them a card despite their feelings towards him. He was still disappointed when they didn’t show up. Family was supposed to attend these events…weren’t they? He didn’t like it when people didn’t do what they were supposed to do. It made him supremely uncomfortable.

 

Violet and Arthur took them all out to eat at a fancy restaurant that he’d never be able to afford, and he spent most of his time looking at the architecture in wonder. It was beautiful, and the decorations even more so. Everything was bright and shiny and gold. He barely noticed the conversation around him.

 

No one cared. When he tuned into what they were talking about, they just welcomed him back to their group and gave him a brief explanation as to what they were talking about. Mycroft and Sherlock rehashed the key points of their own arguments, and Violet rolled her eyes at them both.

 

Then came the presents. Violet gave them a high-end microscope and a first class archaeology tool kit respectively. Victor hugged the kit to his chest and thanked her again and again, Sherlock managed to say it at least once, though Victor knew he was pleased. Arthur gave them a model locomotive each, hand built and painted by him. He didn’t say much about the trains, just smiled and nodded when they thanked him. Mycroft gave them tickets to Paris to spend a week’s vacation together.

 

Victor had never even been out of the country. He didn’t know what to say.

 

“‘Thank you’ worked well enough for everyone else.” Mycroft said drily.

 

“Thank you.” Victor replied, hugging the gifts to his body like he was afraid they’d disappear.

 

“Oh don’t thank him, he’ll think you mean it.” Sherlock muttered. Sometimes Victor wondered if he really believed that anyone thought he didn’t like his brother. He doubted it.

 

Sherlock overdosed for he first time that night.

 

They never did go to Paris together.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Victor was kept out of Sherlock’s rehabilitation process. It wasn’t purposeful; he knew that, it was just that no one had any information to pass along. Even Sherlock’s parents seemed to be kept out of the loop. Mycroft knew what was happening, but Mycroft wasn’t sharing that information with anyone.

 

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, so he read about it. He read about addiction and recovery and how he was supposed to act, and he wished he had more information, because he wasn’t ready for it when Sherlock returned to their flat after disappearing for two months.

 

“Sorry.” Sherlock told him with a shrug. “Is my room still free?” Victor nodded wordlessly, and watched him walk away.

 

Sherlock was different now. More agitated, more easily startled. He was meaner too. He snapped at people, argued more easily, was openly rude. Victor found himself retreating to his bedroom with Pappy, head down and nose tucked into the pages of his book. If they ate dinner together, Victor wasn’t sure what to say. If they sat together, Victor didn’t know what he was meant to do. Sherlock was a rolling ball of frustration.

 

Victor wasn’t all that surprised when he came home one night to find Sherlock sprawled on their sofa, syringe not too far away. He collected all the paraphernalia and he broke what he could and disposed of the rest. Sherlock just stared at him as he did it, mouth hanging open and drool slipping from his lips. He was conscious, but Victor doubted that his consciousness was all that active.

 

In the morning, Sherlock couldn’t even bother to be upset. He just told Victor to leave it alone next time, and went back out to do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t high. Probably look for more drugs, Victor thought savagely.

 

He only followed Sherlock once. In truth, he didn’t even know why he did it. He never broke his routine, but he was compelled this time, and so he left Pappy in his cage and hurried after his friend.

 

Sherlock went into a club. The music was so loud that Victor could feel his lungs tighten, his head spin, and his blood pressure skyrocket. He shivered violently, and he ran his hands over the points of his coat’s zipper as he looked around for where Sherlock might have gotten off to.

 

At some point, someone wrapped their arms around Victor’s shoulders. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

 

“Let go.” Victor requested, anxiety starting to cloud his vision. Each pounding of the base line made his head ache badly. He wanted to go. He wanted to go right now.

 

“Not so fast.” The man whispered into his ear. “I just want to know your name.”

 

“L-l-let go. Now, please. I want to go.”

 

“Go where?” Another particularly loud note from the speakers sent electricity through his spine. He lashed out, striking the man that was touching him and throwing him into the dancers around them.

 

“Hey! Watch it!” Someone’s drink had spilled on his shoes, and Victor looked around him desperately for any sign of Sherlock.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man from earlier hissed, regaining his balance and starting to approach. Victor shook his head and covered his ears. It was too loud. Too loud. He needed to go. He needed to go right now.

 

Sherlock materialized like a vengeful angel, standing firmly between Victor and whoever the bastard before him was. “Back off.” Sherlock hissed, fists clenched and posture ready to fight. “He’s leaving.”

 

“He hit me!” The man cried.

 

“You deserved it. Now back off.” There was a brief moment when Victor was certain the man wouldn’t listen, but he did. He did listen. Sherlock turned and snatched Victor by the arm and started to drag him bodily towards the door. “What were you thinking?”

 

“I-I-”

 

“Get out of here. Never come back.” He was shoved out onto the sidewalk. Victor felt his head spin. Wind blew against his skin and made it ripple distastefully. He hated the feeling.

  
“Sh-Sherl-lock. I-”

 

“I don’t want you here.”

 

“C-c-c-c-c-c-” The word wasn’t coming to him. He felt tears press into his eyes. He tried to speak again, but it failed. Frustration encircled his brain and he wished he could just get the damn words out. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, and damn it Sherlock- he just wanted to help. “Home.” He skipped the first word, because it gave him too much trouble, and jumped to the second. He held up a hand towards his friend. “P- _please_.”

 

Sherlock stood still. He made no move to take his hand, nor to reply. He just stared down at Victor in silence. The tears finally started to slip down Victor’s cheeks and he felt lightheaded from the way his pulse had been rushing. Too much going to his brain it seemed.

 

“Get out of here Victor.” Sherlock said at long last.

 

“If-if you leave. I-I won’t be home when you c-come back.” Victor warned him, shivering as he rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes. “I-I can’t watch you d-die again.”

 

He’ll never forget finding Sherlock’s body on the floor of their living room, unmoving and barely breathing. He’ll never forget calling the ambulance, Sherlock’s parents, Mycroft, desperately telling them that Sherlock had overdosed and he needed help _right now_.

 

He doesn’t think he can do it again. He’s not a strong person. He doesn’t have that kind of fortitude.

 

Sherlock’s nostrils flare. He looked over his shoulder towards the club, and then back at Victor. He didn’t ask if Victor’s telling the truth. He didn’t ask if Victor means it. He just nods his head.

 

“Let’s go home, then.” Sherlock spat the words out hatefully, and he snatched Victor’s hand as he passes by. Victor stumbled to keep up, and eventually Sherlock slowed down for him. They walked side by side the whole way back to the flat.

 

Sherlock dumped all of his drugs the moment they stepped through the door. He informed Victor he’ll go into withdrawal soon. He told him what to look for. He told him not to listen to the vicious things that he’s going to say.  

 

Victor’s not strong enough to watch Sherlock die.

 

He’s strong enough to do this.

 

They come out of it nearly two weeks later, bruised, battered, and exhausted.

 

But Sherlock’s still alive, and Victor knows how close it had come to one more overdose that might have never been found until it was too late.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Victor was asked to join an expedition focused on the Valley of the Kings. He wants it more than anything. Sherlock won’t go with him.

 

“London’s my home.” Sherlock told Victor firmly when he asks. “But Egypt…Egypt’s where you belong.”

 

Victor wanted to say that he can’t do this alone, but Sherlock wouldn’t listen even if he did. Sherlock’s determined to see him off, and has drafted Mycroft to assist in the preparations. 

 

“You’ll start using again.” Victor accused one day when he’s feeling particularly brave. Sherlock shook his head in return.

 

“I have every intention of seeing you again.” Sherlock explained. “You won’t come back if I do.” It’s the truth and they both know it.

 

Victor flew to Egypt feeling terrified and uncertain.

 

That night, Sherlock didn’t pick up his phone when he called. He knew what it meant. Instead of sleeping, Victor spent hours crying in the bathroom, hugging his phone to his chest and wishing he hadn’t put his faith in someone determined to ruin everything.

 

Mycroft got in touch with him nearly a month later. It was too little, too late. Sherlock was alive, he’d overdosed hours after Victor had flown away, and he was in rehab once more. Victor told Mycroft he wasn’t coming back to London. Mycroft didn’t argue.

 

“Good luck, Victor.” Was all he said, as he hung up the phone and he left Victor to brave the world alone.

 

It wasn’t as nice as it used to be. He missed talking to other people. Now, people who all were interested in what he was interested in surrounded him, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk to any of them. He was lonely all the time, and half expected there to be a friend only feet away ready to tell him about some experiment at all times.

 

He wanted to go out and talk to them, but he didn’t know how. Then, he mourned his lack of friends as though it was an unachievable goal.

 

Perhaps it was.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

One year.

 

Two years.

 

Three years.

 

Four years.

 

A letter arrived in the mail, no content, no prose, just a sheet of paper with typed font saying one thing:

 

Sherlock Holmes was clean of all drugs.

 

Victor burned the letter. He didn’t write back.

 

One month later: another letter arrived. It said the same thing.

 

Sherlock Holmes was clean of all drugs.

 

He burned this letter too, and he didn’t write back.

 

It didn’t matter. Every single month like clockwork, a letter arrived and he opened it with wooden fingers.

 

Sherlock Holmes was, still, clean of all drugs.

 

After a year, a sobriety coin was sent along with it. Victor held the coin up to the light. He ran his fingers over the ridges in the letters. _To Thine Own Self Be True_. He wished Sherlock hadn’t sent it. It was supposed to be helpful to keep such things. Victor spent nearly a week trying to work out what he should do with the blasted thing.

 

Eventually he just kept it in his pocket. He ran his fingers over it whenever he needed the stimulation. He held it whenever he needed confirmation that things in his life were all right. The idea for a return present struck him when he was knees deep in sand and body parts.

 

It took some time to work out the shipping arrangements, but eventually he managed to get Mycroft’s help in sending the package straight to Sherlock’s home address. A skull. He wondered if it was appropriate to send skulls to people for achieving sobriety for a year. It probably wasn’t. He’d had a panic attack the moment the package was sent, and rang his hands together for days afterwards.

 

Sherlock’s next letter, confirming his sobriety for thirteen months, came with a small index card. It said four words: _thanks for the skull._

 

Victor wrote back: _you’re welcome._

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Sherlock never wrote letters, and in the six years that their correspondence continued, Victor only ever received copies of his sobriety test along with the occasional index card. The responses came in more quickly if they were speaking. If they weren’t, the sobriety report was always once a month like clockwork. But if Sherlock had written him a few words, he’d write back in a similarly brief way.

 

_Got a job._

_As what?_

_Consulting Detective._

_Good luck._

 

 _Moved again._ The new return address label pointed that out as well.

_Why?_

_Landlord didn’t like smell._ Sherlock’s experiments. Obviously.

 

_Met someone._

 

_Who?_

_New flatmate, John Watson. You’d hate him._

_Why?_

_He’s loud._ Victor laughed at that one, and he spent that day imagining Sherlock living with someone who had a stereo playing horrible music strapped to his back at all times.

 

 _You like him._ He wrote back instead.

 

 _He’s addicted to danger._ The A word always made Victor’s stomach curl. He didn’t respond to that one.

 Sherlock set back with his sobriety report the next month, coin included.

 

Victor had stopped burning the reports. He now kept them in a box by his bed. For every year Sherlock passed drug free, Victor returned the previous year’s coin as he accepted the new year’s replacement. Sherlock was always one skull and one year behind, and Victor always held Sherlock’s current attempts in his palm.

 

Victor was holding Sherlock’s seven-year coin in his hand when a breach of safety protocols ended with a tunnel collapse. He was choking on sand while he gripped Sherlock’s coin, and he wished he’d written one last letter to his friend before he’d gone, saying three words he should have said years ago:

 

 _I forgive you_.

 

He never got the chance.

 

He wouldn’t know it, but Sherlock never made it to year eight.


	2. Inner Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor doesn't trust many people, but if he had to trust someone it would be Sherlock Holmes.

Victor woke up in a brightly lit room with open windows and curtains swaying in the breeze. The air tasted like water, and he shivered uncomfortably as the humidity clung to his skin and coated it with a fine layer of must that he loathed. He ran the back of his damp hand against his eyes, and he looked around him awkwardly.

 

He wasn’t in a hospital. If anything he was in a sparsely furnished bedroom. A sparsely furnished bedroom that was decorated with the furniture from _his_ flat in Cairo. He sat up abruptly, air catching in his throat as his brain sluggishly tried to work out what was happening.

 

“Ah, you’re awake.” He turned towards the door and blinked owlishly up at Mycroft Holmes. He hadn’t seen the man in years, though sometimes he received calls from him. Victor shivered as the wind blew in through the window and danced across the hairs on his arms. He never liked that feeling. Despite the heat, he pulled the blankets he’d been wrapped in up to his chin.

 

“Mycroft?” Victor’s voice was hoarse, like it’d been rubbed raw. He felt like he’d swallowed sand, and with a sudden lurch- he realized he _had_.

 

The collapse had been almost instantaneous. Almost. He’d had just enough time to realize what was happening, to take in the sight of the walls caving in, the sand starting to fall, the air turning foul. He choked at the memory and one hand reached for his throat in horror.

 

He’d pressed his face into the neckerchief he always wore on expeditions, even as his body was pushed into the ground and he was rendered immobile. One hand clung to his face, keeping as much sand out of his mouth as possible, the other clung to Sherlock’s seven year sobriety coin in useless desperation. The oppressing weight of sand crushed over his body and he had struggled to get out, only to be thwarted time and again.

 

He didn’t realize he was crying until Mycroft carefully adjusted the blankets around his body to embrace him more firmly. “You were only under for two hours. Since you were towards the entrance, you were the first they managed to find and pull out.” Mycroft explained carefully. It hadn’t felt like two hours. It had felt like days of waning consciousness and uncertainty. Victor knew he’d wet himself. He’d been able to feel the sand rubbing into his skin, mingling with urine and making it even worse. “A man named James Moriarty planned the collapse. He hired one of the boys on your site to release-”

 

“I don’t care.” Victor told him, shaking his head and scrubbing at his face. “I don’t!”

 

“I understand.” Mycroft informed him. The wind blew again, and Sherlock’s brother sighed. He walked towards the window and closed it tight. “Jim Moriarty just tried to kill Sherlock and his flatmate, John-”

 

“Watson.” Victor finished, shivering at a chill that didn’t exist.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where’s Sherlock?”

 

“London. He believes you’re dead.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Moriarty needs to believe you’re dead as well.”

 

“No, no that’s- _no._ ” Victor shook his head, unwilling to follow what Mycroft was saying.

 

“Victor…Sherlock’s going to take care of Moriarty. He will. But we barely managed to get you out alive. If you return to the world, you will be killed. Do you understand?”

 

“I’m not stupid!” Victor insisted.

 

“I never said you were.” Mycroft excused easily. “I know that you will not be happy with your current arrangements…”

 

“What arrangements?”

 

“But you’ll be staying here until this situation with Moriarty has been dealt with.”

 

“No I won’t.” Victor pushed the blankets off him and stumbled from the bed. His legs felt weak from disuse, but he pushed through it. Mycroft did nothing to stop him as he stumbled towards the door. He pulled it open sharply, and blinked at the strange environment. He had no idea where he was or what Mycroft’s reasoning for bringing him here was, but his belongings were placed around this structure. His photos were on the wall. His dog was carefully waddling towards him from the end of the hall. “Pappy?” Victor asked, carefully crouching so he could pick up the bull terrier.

 

The poor dog was nearing the end of his days, pushing sixteen years old and still surprisingly active despite his geriatric status. Far more mellowed than he had been in previous years, Papyrus let his master do what he would, and didn’t complain in the slightest.

 

Victor carefully walked through the house, looking around and flinching as he saw that Mycroft truly had uprooted everything just to hole him up here. He hurried towards the door, heart thundering in his chest as he wished to escape. He tugged on the handle and took one step into the outside world, before stopping short.

 

He wasn’t in Egypt. From the humidity, he’d hoped that maybe he’d been somewhere on the Nile, perhaps relocated to the delta somewhere. He wasn’t on the delta. He was surrounded by trees. Great conifers sprouted around the house- a cottage really. Rain had recently fallen, and the needles were drenched with  water.

 

“Where am I?” Victor asked, feeling familiar panic and uncertainty starting to build in his chest.            

 

“Someplace safe.” Mycroft replied, only feet away.

 

“No. No. No. No- you can’t do this. You can’t-”

 

“Victor…Sherlock-”

 

“I don’t care about your brother!” All his life people had said the same thing: he didn’t feel emotions like the rest of the world. He was always reminded that he wasn’t supposed to feel anything about anyone. That he wouldn’t understand emotions. He didn’t care about Sherlock’s opinion as far as his current living arrangements went. Shouting it now should have felt like a natural. It didn't. 

 

“You and my brother like to tell people you don’t care. And it’s true, caring is not, and has never been an advantage of any kind. But Victor,” Mycroft stepped closer. Victor stepped back. “Victor, you do care about Sherlock. And Sherlock cares for you as well.”

 

“I want to go back to Egypt.” Victor said, hugging his dog close.

 

“I’m sorry, Victor. But I can’t allow that.” Mycroft didn’t look sorry. He didn’t look sorry at all.

 

Especially when he introduced Victor to the armed guards that would be responsible for Victor’s containment until such a time when it was safe to leave. Victor didn’t like socializing with other people, but he also didn’t like to be imprisoned.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mycroft eventually left to return to London. Victor stayed behind to stare at the walls and pet his dog. He had no access to the outside world. No phone, no laptop, no internet connection of any kind actually. For the first week he read and reread the reports on the Valley of the Kings that he’d been working on. He tried to familiarize himself with the lesser known components of his research, and he began to memorize every detail he could.

 

He didn’t sleep well.

 

During the day he could feel his mouth going dry at random intervals, his skin suddenly felt like it was covered in small crumbs that wouldn’t brush off. At night, the feeling only intensified. He rubbed at his skin, but the crumbs didn’t leave. He choked on air, but there was no reason for him to have difficulty of any kind.

 

He woke up desperate for water. He was always far too hot, but when he opened the window- the wind blew in and his skin rippled in dissatisfaction. He pulled blankets over his body, but felt stifled and contained. He tried to balance it, but could never find the right way to go about it.

 

He started to cry.

 

Time slipped him by.

 

Days and weeks and months.

 

Sometimes he forgot to eat, couldn’t be motivated to make something. Sometimes he forgot where he was and was startled by birds calling in the night.

 

Papyrus died sometime after his sixty-seventh nightmare.

 

Victor was fairly certain he was going to go mad if this continued.

 

He started cleaning obsessively after that.

 

It was the only thing to do.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Winter came, and snow started to fall from the sky. Victor stayed out longer than he should have, staring at the snow as it fell. His jailers kept muttering about how he should go in, but the chill in the air was better than the feeling of helplessness he’d felt inside.

 

Sometimes he liked to dream about going out into the wilderness and disappearing. He liked to dream about running away and staying out of sight, never seeing Mycroft or another one of his bodyguards ever again.

 

He built snow forts with the determination of one who needed to do it to survive. He designed snowmen, snowwomen, snow families, and snow dogs. The last ones looked just like Pappy and he wished his dog was still alive to see it. He talked to them quietly, because he didn’t like the idea of talking to his security team.

 

When he was finally dragged inside, long after his fingers had turned blue and his body had stopped shivering. They forced him into the shower to get warmed up, and he only thought about it when he realized that he didn’t even have the capacity to freeze to death. Mycroft’s men truly were thorough. He wondered if they’d remove the sharp knives next.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They did.

 

Victor hated being imprisoned. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

Victor wrote out on a set of index cards that Mycroft allowed him to have.

 

_I hate your brother. I want to stick an embalming tool up his nose and see how he likes it._

_My brain is numb._

_Is this why you do drugs?_

_Do you know I’m alive yet?_

_What has he told you?_

_When can I go home?_

_I want to go home._

_Pappy died._

_Do you care?_

 

He couldn’t mail the letters, so the cards just started to stack up on his desk. Victor wanted to burn them, but there wasn’t any to do it. They’d taken his lighter, and the oven was disconnected. The gas turned off. They didn’t trust him.

 

All his food was delivered.

 

He was costing them a fortune just to keep him alive.

 

Victor hoped it hurt.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The seasons changed backwards and forwards. Mycroft came to visit once every eight months or so. On his first visit, he had been tense and awkward, but each one after he’d progressively become more relaxed. It didn’t matter. Victor couldn’t bring himself to speak to him. He shook his head back and forth, keening low in his throat and motioning desperately towards the door for him to leave. If he didn’t, Victor started to throw everything he could manage at the man.

 

If he worked hard enough at it, Mycroft would permit him a few more minutes of blessed silence. It didn’t last long. Eventually Victor would be cowed into submission and he’d sit across from Mycroft in quiet misery.

 

“It’s not my intent to torture you.” Mycroft told him each time he came by. Sherlock still wasn’t aware of his existence. Victor wondered what would happen if he did. “I am sorry about your dog.”

 

Victor forced himself to focus on something else, anything else except for Mycroft. When he was younger, his parents always said he wasn’t allowed to talk to their guests. They used to put him in the attic and close the stairs up behind him. He wasn’t allowed to move or make a sound. If he did, there were punishments.

 

Victor was very good at staying still.

 

Mycroft spoke, but Victor didn’t listen. He ran through lists of tombs and pharaohs, translating hieroglyphs in his mind and enjoying the sound of the words as they echoed through his brain. Mycroft always left behind a packet of information, a new case full of books, new clothes, and some toys he could play with.

 

Like a child.

 

Victor wasn’t foolish enough to feign pride when it came to the toys. He used them frequently, bouncing the balls against the walls, studying the finger traps, conquering the puzzle cubes. Mycroft never left anything he could choke on. He didn’t have a high opinion of Victor’s mortality.

 

The packet of information was almost always about Egypt. Some new case study, some new journal article. Victor’s nightmares were always worse those nights. He woke up choking on sand and feeling like the world around him was going to collapse. He wasn’t sure if it was Mycroft’s presence or the journal articles that was doing it, but he couldn’t bring himself to read anything new about Egypt anymore. He was frightened to know what that meant.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Victor made an escape attempt once. It was after his second winter in the cottage. His guards had finally started to feel complacent about the idea that he wasn’t going anywhere. They started to slack off some, stopped posting someone in his room everywhere he went, stopped tracking him whenever he proved to be conscious.

 

For the first time in over seven hundred days: they took their eyes off him long enough for him to actually do something about it. He didn’t take anything with him, didn’t even stop for shoes, he just took his chance and ran.

 

He managed to make it six miles into the forest before he heard the sound of motorized vehicles behind him. Two years ago he had been in the best shape of his life, climbing in and out of burial chambers and scaling sheer cliffs. Now, he was tired and exhausted and out of shape.

 

He still tried to climb one of the conifers he was surrounded by. He made it half-way up by sheer luck alone, and he clung to the trunk tightly. It didn’t help him one bit when the branch he was sitting on snapped soundly and he went crashing from the tree with a startled yelp of surprise.

 

He broke his arm, fractured his hip, and lost the trust of his guards all in one day. The didn’t even take him to a hospital. Instead, they brought him back to that house and they patched him up there.

 

“I want to go home. I want to go home.” He repeated over and over, hoping that maybe someone would eventually listen to him. No one did. He woke up in the morning, and was still in that house. He missed Egypt. He missed – well…he wasn’t sure what he missed, but he didn’t want what he currently had.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mycroft wasn’t impressed by his escape attempt. He made a special trip down just to see him. “How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked him uselessly. Victor refused to reply on principle. “I spoke with Sherlock today-” Victor wondered how long it would take Mycroft to realize that he was not interested in hearing anything about Sherlock.

 

His world didn’t revolve around Sherlock Holmes. It hadn’t in years. Hearing about him now didn’t make him weak in the knees or desperate for information. It only made him more determined to never speak to him again.

 

The longer Victor was held here, the harder it was to remember that they had even been friends to begin with. Victor couldn’t understand the point of all this. Surely if Sherlock thought he was dead for all this time…it wouldn’t matter if he was alive suddenly?

 

 

“…Serbia.” Mycroft was still talking. “….home soon.” That sounded important, and Victor blinked rapidly as his mind struggled to re-engage.

 

“What?” He asked. Mycroft smiled indulgently.

 

“Sherlock’s gone to Serbia. With any luck, he’ll finish dismantling Moriarty’s network there, and then you both can go home soon.”

 

“What network?” Mycroft seemed more amused by the second, and Victor wondered what on earth he’d missed when he hadn’t been paying attention.

 

“You don’t need to know.” Mycroft said imperiously. “Just relax, Victor. Everything will be fine.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” Victor told him.

 

He really shouldn’t have. It was another year before anything changed.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

To say that Sherlock was angry was an understatement that Victor never thought he’d have to use. Almost fifteen years since he left Sherlock on a tarmac in London while he was flying to Egypt to follow his dreams, Victor stood before Sherlock for the first time.

 

Mycroft had arrived at the cottage one evening, informed him they would be relocating, and all but threw him in a car. It didn’t matter how much Victor wanted to leave that damn house, leaving it sent waves of terror coursing through his body in ways he couldn’t explain.

 

He clutched the door handle with all his strength, shook the entire journey, and he couldn’t breathe by the time they got him on the plane. Mycroft didn’t say a word the whole while, choosing instead work on his palm pilot and read emails.

 

Victor half wished they’d just drug him and get it over with. Mycroft didn’t even offer. He wasn’t going to ask.

 

Mycroft bundled him up and marched him straight to a tall marble building where he told Victor not to say a word in. It was perfectly easy to accomplish, and Victor trotted behind Mycroft even as his heart beat wildly and his head spun uselessly.

 

After years of silence and solitude, the sudden change was too much, too abrupt, and too powerful for him to accept. His mind was rejecting it even as Mycroft insisted he do as he was told. He could feel tears starting to press against his eyes, and his fingers started twitching against his arms.

 

Eventually they were safely inside an office of sorts, and Victor felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest as he caught sight of Sherlock sulking by a bookcase at the back of the office. “ _Mycroft,_ finally, do you know how long I-” Sherlock’s voice, deeper than Victor remembered, was full of exasperation and annoyance even before it cut short. Sherlock turned while he spoke, and the moment his eyes slid from his brother to Victor, he went rigid.

 

Realization slammed into Victor hard, and he gaped at Mycroft in horror. “You never told him I was alive?” Mycroft didn’t reply. “ _Never?_ ” Still no response. “Not-not even before you _dragged me here_?”

 

“Victor?” Sherlock sounded lost for a moment, as though he were struggling to comprehend what he was looking at. He was swaying on his feet, and one hand reached back to steady himself on the bookcase.

 

“Why?” Victor asked, shoving Mycroft hard. “ _Why?_ Why did you do this?”

 

“It was necessary.” Mycroft stated firmly.

 

“Necessary to hide him from me?” Sherlock hissed.

 

“Quite.” Mycroft looked down at his nails and analyzed them for a moment before looking up. “It kept you focused, and him safe.”

 

“You son of a bitch.” Sherlock made to move forwards, but he never got a chance. Victor threw a punch straight into Mycroft’s jaw sending him stumbling backwards. He’d never thrown a punch before a day in his life, and he felt his hand burst with pain in response. Outside, he could hear Mycroft’s bodyguards mobilizing, any second now they’d rush through to apprehend him.

 

Victor threw another punch before the door was flung open and he was tackled to the ground.  Mycroft’s nose splattered with blood first, and for one solitary moment: Victor felt like he’d finally won something for once in his life.

 

Sherlock pushed himself between Victor and Mycroft’s bodyguards, shouting and commanding in every turn of phrase he could manage. Mycroft even managed to eventually get himself together enough to tell the men to stand down.

 

“Bi’m _fine_. Now bleab. Mr. Trebor isn’ goin’ ta stri’ me ‘gain.” Mycroft stated as firmly as someone with a broken nose _could_ state as he clutched his face. He was failing to stop blood from staining his suit, and Victor hoped he’d have to burn the suit in the end.

 

“That a fact?” Victor asked, flexing his damaged hand and wondering if he could manage to form another fist with it. He could always use his other hand too.

 

“ _Ugh-es._ ” Mycroft insisted, probably intending to say: ‘yes,’ sending the guards away at long last.

 

Sherlock hovered at Victor’s side, hands levitating over him, but not touching. Instead, he quietly asked:

 

“May I see your hand?” Victor almost sobbed at the stark reminder of exactly _why_ he’d always loved Sherlock. Sherlock always asked. Always. He always asked.

 

He handed his hand over immediately, and Sherlock took it. His fingers were cold to the touch, and it felt so much nicer than the heat that constantly slid through him when he least expected it. Mycroft was doing something, probably trying to fix his nose, but neither Victor nor Sherlock were paying him any more attention than was required.

 

Victor had thought for certain that Sherlock would at least be aware of his survival before they met up. He’d known that Mycroft kept it a secret, but he hadn’t thought it extended for this long. Sherlock looked physically ill, as though he’d destroyed something a long time ago and was now-

 

“You’re using again.” Victor realized, and Mycroft let out a startled noise even as Sherlock’s lips tightened into a thin line.

 

“I…when you died, yes.” Sherlock agreed quietly.

 

“I ha’ your blat cleare-duh.” Mycroft denied. Sherlock’s fingers tightened around Victor’s hand.

 

“Do you really think I would bother with bringing anything back to the flat? Knowing you monitor me like a hawk?” Sherlock hissed. “I thought he was dead!”

 

“Why does that matter?” Victor whispered. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“Because I wanted to forget how badly it hurt to know you were gone.” He said after a long while.

 

“You’re never going to stop.” Victor realized, laughing too loud as he shoved Sherlock back. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, shaking his head. Victor didn't give him the chance.  “You’re never going to stop. You don’t want to stop. You don’t want to stop anything.” He wiped his eyes furiously. “I’m not doing this.” He pushed away. His chest hurt, his head hurt, his whole body was exhausted. “I’m not doing this. I’m not your excuse to stop using. I’m not…” He looked at Mycroft. “I’m not your prize to give to him when he’s behaved. I’m…I’m leaving.” He had no idea where he was going to go or what he was supposed to do, but he was going to do _something_ no matter what.

 

“What prize?” Sherlock asked slowly. “What’s going on?” He looked towards Mycroft.

 

“Nobling you been to know.” Mycroft said with a wave of his hand.

 

“Oh?” Victor asked, trembling with rage and fed up with both brothers. “I woke up-I-I woke up from the cave in, and was in Switzerland!” Victor had finally figured that out on the plane trip to London. Three years in solitary confinement, and he finally figured out where he had been all that time. “He wouldn’t let me go! He said Moriarty was going to kill me to hurt you! He wouldn’t-he wouldn’t. Three years. And I-” Victor wondered if there would ever be a moment in his life when he could just say what he wanted to say. He wondered if he’d ever be able to just get it right.

 

“You bastard.” Sherlock hissed, turning on Mycroft in an instant. “You kidnapped him.”

 

“I kept him safe.” Mycroft’s nose must be drained of blood, because he was starting to work out how to talk more normally.

 

“You kept him safe?” Sherlock seethed, looking for all the world like he was about to start throwing punches. “He doesn’t _need_ to be kept safe. He can look after himself, make his own decisions, make choices all on his own. He isn’t disabled or incapable!”

 

“Sherblock, I have neber said-”

 

“What was this living arrangement like? Guards at every window and door? Stimulation provided for good behavior? Lack of any type of sharp object or utensil?” Sherlock was trembling. “If he has a choice, if he isn’t incapable of choosing right from wrong, then why refuse to let him?!”

 

“I couldn’t risk-”

 

“What?! What couldn’t you risk? What couldn’t you risk that was more important than letting an innocent man have his autonomy?”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“I would rather never see him again than _ever_ put him through that.” Victor searched his brain for any reason that he was willing to stay here one minute longer. Surprisingly, there _was_ one. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s wrist. His old friend flinched violently at the contact, and Victor’s hand was left hesitating in mid-air. That was new. Sherlock was rubbing his wrist, and all the color had faded from his cheeks.

 

“Take me home.” Victor asked quietly. “I want to go home.”

 

Victor didn’t even know what home he meant at this point. He just knew that he wanted to be as far away from Mycroft as possible, and right now: Sherlock was the only person in the world he trusted to see that through. Sherlock nodded once, it was more than enough.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherlock took him back to Baker Street via cab. Mycroft offered to drive them, but they both turned him down resolutely. Victor closed his eyes and pressed his body against the door of their vehicle, and tried to remember to breathe. There was a monitor in the cab, and when their doors clicked closed it started playing a happy jingle and news report. Sherlock’s hand snapped off and practically punched the off button.

 

“Hate those things.” Sherlock muttered, and it was just one more thing to analyze. They didn’t talk the entire way to Sherlock’s flat, but Victor was grateful for it. He needed the silence for a few minutes just to get his head on straight. He tried to process what had happened, but found it was simply too much.

 

Sherlock paid the cabbie when they arrived, and they walked into the flat together. Sherlock led him up a flight of stairs and into a sitting room that was an exercise in organized chaos. Too much. Far too much. Victor’s eyes shut and he hummed quietly under his breath.

 

“May I touch you?” Sherlock asked him quietly, to his right. When Victor nodded, Sherlock carefully took Victor’s arm and led him through the room and down another hall. Victor kept his eyes shut until Sherlock closed a door behind them and he heard a light switch.

 

This time, when he opened his eyes, the room he was in was far easier to deal with. Sparse furniture, two pictures posted to the walls. Nothing else. “What can I get you?” Sherlock asked him keeping his voice soft.

 

Victor just shook his head. He didn’t know. He couldn’t even begin to know. For the first time in three years someone was actually having a conversation with him, and he was at a complete loss as to what to make of it all. He needed to stop. Just for a little bit. Just until the noise in his head went away and he could finally start muddling through.

 

“Anything you want to touch is yours. My clothes are in the same places as they always are. You can take all of it.”

 

“Pappy died.” Victor said, not sure why he felt compelled to share that information, but finding it to be the only words he could form.

 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock replied. He didn’t reach out to touch Victor, didn’t breach the space between them. Victor wished he could trust that Sherlock would always be that understanding. Would always be there. “Do you want me to go?” Sherlock asked quietly. Victor nodded, and with a softly spoken goodnight- they went their own ways for the evening.

 

That night, Victor woke to the feeling of sand crushing him into the earth, and his mouth turning dry as he choked on dust that he’d never be able to wash clean.

 

He rolled over in Sherlock’s bed, gasping for air and scrambling for purchase onto _something_.

 

Distantly, he could here the soft trill of a violin in the dark. One two three, one two three, one two three, one two three. A waltz. Not one Victor recognized. Sherlock’s then? He collapsed back onto the mattress, and counted beats until his heart slowed. He didn’t fall back asleep, but his mind stayed quiet.

 

This time: he was able to stop thinking about sand.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

They talked eventually. They’d had to. In the morning, when it was safe to come out, Victor slipped into the kitchen and prepared himself to step into the world. Sherlock’s home was transformed. The chaos that had taken root in Sherlock’s lodgings prior to Victor’s arrival had righted itself. The books were back in their places, appropriately organized in Victor’s preferred method of topic date and alphabetization. The kitchen was spotless. The sitting room was cluttered but manageable.

 

Victor felt tears pressing at his eyes. He’d missed this. He’d miss someone understanding and not pushing a different point of view on him. He missed not having to say what was wrong, and just being accepted as he was.

 

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock asked him softly, keeping his voice low and even.

 

“Nightmare.” Victor replied nervously, shifting his weight on his feet and looking around the sitting room more intently. “What about you?”

 

“Nightmare.” Sherlock agreed quietly. It surprised him.

 

“What was your nightmare about?” Sherlock hesitated for a moment before approaching. He pulled back the sleeves of his dress shirt that he was wearing. Scars. Victor reached forwards, and then stopped.

 

“May I touch you?” The words felt foreign on his tongue. It had been years since he’d asked, though he’d heard it often enough in return. His parents had insisted that he always ask, since generally speaking the answer was always no. Sherlock had never had such a complaint. He’d always just offered his body to Victor whenever the urge to engage in physical contact arose. Now, it seemed prudent to ask. Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards slightly, though it was too small of an expression for Victor to understand it properly.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said evenly. Victor reached his fingertips out and traced them over the thick bands that encircled Sherlock’s wrists.

 

“From…drugs?” He asked.

 

“No.” Sherlock replied. “I was captured in Serbia when I was working to take down Moriarty’s network. They’re…” Sherlock trailed off. Victor didn’t understand. If he was captured, they’d want to ask questions right? What did that have to do with his wrists? The marks were too awkward for handcuffs too. Handcuffs would encircle the wrist, but these were on the back of Sherlock’s hands as well. There were multiple marks on his wrists, one near the base of his palm, one on the top of it, generally an inch apart. It didn’t make sense. “They’re from shackles actually.”

 

“Shackles?” Victor repeated, trying to imagine Sherlock in shackles. It was difficult. “Why would they keep you in shackles?” Sherlock didn’t reply right away. Instead, he took a step closer to Victor and rotated his palm so it held Victor’s fingers. Then he drew Victor’s hand backwards until it had reached around Sherlock’s body and was pressing against his back. At first, Victor didn’t feel anything, but when Sherlock moved his hand, he started to feel ridges. Lines. He jerked his hand back in horror. “But-but-that’s-that’s barbaric, archaic! People don’t do that anymore. It’s-it’s against the law.”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed, almost amused.

 

“Why would they do that?”

 

“They wanted to know what I knew.”

 

“You’re a chemist!” Victor blurted out. Sherlock started to laugh at that, and for the life of him Victor couldn’t understand why. “A detective…too.” He added on uselessly.

 

“Oh, Victor. I have missed you.” Sherlock said, and Victor wasn’t sure how to react to that. He nodded because it seemed appropriate to do so, but he wasn’t sure it was good enough.

 

Then, they sat down together for the first time in years, and they talked.

 

Victor had never been good at social interaction, but with people he liked, people he trusted, he had no difficulty speaking. He let the words tumble out. He let them fall in whatever way they landed, and as long as he kept pushing forwards: his standard bout of nervous stuttering didn’t impede the telling of the tale.

 

He talked about waking up in Switzerland and feeling as though the world was ripped out from under him. He talked about the years of isolation, how even now it felt like he had three years of nonsense he _needed_ to get off his chest. He talked about how terrified he’d been from the onset, how much he wanted to just go back to what he knew, to tell them all to go away, to never bother with any of it, and how little agency he’d had to do that.

 

It was made so much easier, because not once did Sherlock ask for him to look up. Not once did Sherlock encourage him to maintain eye contact, to talk softer or louder than he was currently doing, or to sit or stand in a perfect way. Sherlock sat still and he listened to every word as though it was gospel. When he was done, he didn’t offer any platitudes, had no empty words to give Victor about how he would or should feel. He merely apologized that it happened, and promised him that he would do whatever he had to do in order to make it right.

 

“May I touch you?” Victor asked at the end of it all, and Sherlock opened his arms immediately. Victor leaned forwards and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock gently wrapped his arms around his oldest friend.

 

“What can I do to help?” Sherlock asked quietly, even as Victor clung to his back – terrified that they’d be separated again.

 

Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome, years of being told that Sherlock was the only force on this Earth that would take him out of that cottage and let him be free again, or maybe it was the simple fact that Sherlock had always been there if he’d needed him and this was just right, but Victor couldn’t imagine the strength he’d need to let go once more.

 

“Stop doing drugs.” Victor asked him. “Please…I don’t want to stay away again.”

 

Sherlock pulled back just enough to reach into his pocket and pull out a coin. He pressed it into Victor’s palm, and Victor held it up to see. _To Thine Own Self Be True: 7 Month Recovery_. Victor choked on air and tears pressed out of his eyes. He squeezed his fingers around it.

 

“I wanted to forget.” Sherlock told Victor quietly. “I made a mistake. You were right…I’m…too smart for this.”

 

“You only sent the years.” Victor gasped out.

 

“They seemed the most important.” Sherlock admitted.

 

“Seven months? Why…then?”

 

“It’s really been two years, but I didn’t have a group to give me a coin at. I couldn’t bring myself to attend until after I got back from Serbia.” Victor laughed slightly at that, and shook his head. He reached a trembling hand into his pocket and pulled out his own coin: the coin he’d held with him since the day it arrived in the mail all that time ago.

 

 _To Thine Own Self Be True: 7 Years_.

 

“Give me your next one.” Victor requested, flushing as he pressed the seven year coin back into its original owner’s palm.

 

“I will.” Sherlock swore, closing his fingers around the coin. For the first time in a long time when it came to drugs: Victor believed him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Victor stayed at Baker Street. He met Sherlock’s new friends, and he awkwardly slid into their pre-existing arrangement. When guests or clients came over, he smiled shyly at them and then hurried into the bedroom to read or write. Sherlock knocked on the door whenever he was finished, and told him what time he could expect Sherlock’s return if he had a case he was going off to.

 

Sometimes Victor stayed out a few minutes longer, forcing casual conversation and struggling to grasp sarcastic jokes that didn’t make any sense whatsoever. He had a tendency to look to Sherlock to translate them, but Sherlock was often just as confused as he was. “We’re literal minded.” Sherlock muttered mutinously when another joke sailed over both their heads. “Too cerebral for the likes of you.” He informed their audience who generally laughed good naturedly.

 

“Do they think I’m strange?” Victor asked Sherlock more than once. “Do they not like me?”

 

“They like you just fine, and if they don’t – they’re not welcome.” Sherlock stated, giving his shoulder a squeeze. It felt right.

 

At night, Victor still dreamed of sand and dust and suffocating. Sherlock started to wake him up, soothe him, bring him a glass of water. He found blankets and pillows that were light and firm respectively. He didn’t feel like he was sinking, scrambling out for help that didn’t come fast enough.

 

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” Sherlock asked him once when Victor had admitted that he couldn’t even touch sand without being transported to the sounds of the tunnel falling apart around him.

 

Digging had been the only thing he’d ever had any interest in. His whole life had been revolved around archaeology and climbing into the ground just to find the smallest bit of _something_ very old. Just the sight of dirt under his nails made his mouth go dry. He still wore a neckerchief with almost hysteric necessity.

 

“No.” Victor realized quietly. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he would likely never be able to go back to Egypt. The heat, the sand, the taste of the air: it would be too much. He’s not sure he’d make it out of the terminal, let alone into one of the sand coated hotels that he never rested in. “I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing in my life.” Victor whispered. “I have a PhD in archeology, and…and I have no idea what to do with it. I can’t go back in the field, and talking about-”

 

He could hear shouts, feel the air swirl around him. Feel his hand rush to his face to cover his mouth and nose from the dust that was swirling everywhere.

 

Sherlock’s fingers tightened around his wrist. It drew him back to reality, and he sucked in a desperate breath of air. Sherlock pressed a glass of water into his hands, and he gulped it down gratefully. He’d needed it, even if it _was_ only in his head.

 

“You’ll figure it out.” Sherlock told him firmly. “You’re brilliant.”

 

“I’m not the savant you are.” Victor reminded him.

 

“No, but you’ve always been perfect.” With a smile he reached out and pressed a kiss to the side of Victor’s head. “My moon.”

 

“My sun.” Victor replied, barely voicing the words but mouthing them all the same. “Sherlock?” He asked, stepping away and looking at his friend- the closest friend he’d ever had in his life.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I…there was something I wanted to tell you. Something I kept thinking about when I was…” _Dying._ Sherlock nodded. He didn’t have to say the word. Didn’t need to dwell on it. “I forgive you.” He said firmly. Sherlock didn’t respond right away, so he repeated it. “I forgive you.”

 

Sherlock’s lips twisted upwards, smiling. “I know.” Sherlock said, and he leaned forwards to press a chaste kiss against Victor’s lips. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

 

Victor nodded.

 

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt you want filled? Want to just say hi? Let me know!
> 
> falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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